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War Poems 
By "X" 



/.■ 



War 
Poems 
By "X" 




Garden City, New York 
Doubleday, Page & Company 
1917 






Copyright, 1917, by 
DOUBLEDAY, PaGE & CoMPANY 

All rights reserved 
First Edition, March, igiy 



i 



1^ 



/5PR -4 (317 



©CU460361 



TO 

the artists* rifles 
(beloved of mars and minerva) 

IN THE 

FIRST BATTALION 

OF WHICH 

REGIMENT 

I HAVE MANY FRIENDS 

NAM UT OMITTAM 

PHILIPPUM 

THIS BOOK IS 

RESPECTFULLY 

DEDICATED 



Con ten ts 



FACE 



A Song of Pride for England 3 

Sons 7 

Unto the End 10 

Valour 12 

Post Proelium 13 

Marching On 16 

Sergeant Death 19 

Dawn 22 

Kitchener 23 

For Righteousness' Sake 24 

Lovers 26 

John Travers Cornwell 27 

In the Train 29 

Steel-True and Blade-Straight 32 

Sursum 34 

The Full Share 36 

Killed 40 

Dying for your Country 42 

►A Chant of Affection 44 

The Riddle 49 

Ubi Bene 51 

Cor Cordium 52 



vu 



Contents 



PACK 



A Rhyme of GafFer D 53 

•The Ass 57 

The Diners 58 

A Rhyme of Right or Wrong 61 

July I, 1916 64 

To the Kaiser 66 

JofFre 67 

Excuses 71 

It 74 

1912 76 

Towards the Reckoning 80 

Verdun 81 

Ireland 82 

If 84 

Wounded 86 

Come Young Lads First 88 

The Rhyme of the Beast 91 

Gaudeamus 93 

For Whom it may Concern 95 

Slain 97 



viii 



War Poems 
By "X" 



A Song of Pride for England 



I 



Lo, the stark heavens are stirred: 
He Cometh, plumed and spurred, 
To say the undaunted word, 

England! 
With high and haughty breath 
He hails the hordes beneath; 
This hath he for their teeth — 

"England again I" 



II 



King George in London Town, 
Sweareth our own's our own: 
Whose might shall pluck us down, 

England ? 
Glories of slaughtered hosts, 
Splendours of English ghosts 
Beckon us from our coasts, 

England again! 



Ill 



Shrewd, on our world of seas, 
Waketh at dawn a breeze 
Singing bold melodies, 

England! 
Rose-red the long day falls, 
And the frore night wind calls 
To our proud Admirals, 

"England again!" 



IV 



Our Ensign flutters still 
On the unshaken hill; 
Our Bugle vaunteth shrill, 

England! 
What of the heathen draff? 
They are as burning chaff. 
Into their eyes we laugh, 

England again! 



Death in his charnel-house. 
Rage and the Devil's spouse 
Hate — ruffle not your brows, 
England! 



Blood of your fathers' blood, 
Bred of great motherhood, 
Suckled on ancient good — 

"England again!" 



VI 



You shall be steel and ice, 
Stronger than love, and thrice 
Stricken for sacrifice, 

England! 
You shall bow to the flail, 
The hammer and the nail. 
And perish — and prevail, 

England again! 



VII 

While this our little land 
Hath a man-child to stand. 
He shall lift up his hand, 

England, 
To smite the accursed bars: 
Out of the din of wars 
He shall shout to the stars, 

"England again!" 



VIII 

Troop you from field and fold, 
Market and shop of gold; 
Let the full tale be told, 

England! 
Time beats his pitiless drum, 
Fate's at her iron loom, 
For the New Earth, or Doom — 

England again! 



Sons 



I 



We have sent them forth 

To Christ's own rood; 
Their feet are white 

On the fields of blood, 
And they must slake 

Their young desire 
In wells of death 

And pits of fire. 



The red cock crows 

And the grey cock crows 
And there is red 

On Flanders' snows; 
And sun-scorched sand 

And thirsty clay 
Drink a red spilth 

By Suvla Bay. 



And where Azizeah's 

Turrets gleam, 
And Tigris glitters, 

Like a dream. 
Through nights of scent 

And tinkling sounds, 
Sleep rose-white dead 

With rose-red wounds. 



II 

I saw the Shadow 

Count the fair 
Sum of his takings; 

Them that were 
Children in years 

When they were sped, 
And now are mighty 

Being dead. 



Like galaxies 

Of stars, they shone 
In the great places 

They have won; 
He sets them there. 

No sting hath he, 
And his is not 

The Victory. 



8 



And whom he spared 

I saw return, 
Ambassadors 

From his brave bourne- 
Strong with the wisdom 

Of the Wars, 
Bright from the camps 

Of Conquerors. 



Unto the End 



Though the rivers of crystal run blood till the seas are 

blood, 
And the lands which were for proud harvests gape livid 

with death; 
And the goodness we had of the days is emptied for ever 

of good, 
And for ever the balm of the silver night faileth and 

perisheth; 
And though from the womb our sons know only to rage 

and kill, 
And our daughters forget that a bride is wed not for 

widow but wife; 
And War, which the wise of their wisdom accounted the 

chiefest ill, 
Boasteth itself for the glory and blessing and purport of 

life; 
Yea, though these things were established for ever — how 

should we quail. 
Or falter, or doubt that the sheer, stark soul of us shall 

prevail ? 



10 



We are done with the laughter and solace, the softness, the 

bloom, 
The clusters and sheaves of content, the honey and milk; 
We are gone from the beautiful places unto the brinks of 

doom. 
Where that is sharp which was sweet and that is steel 

which was silk. 
And that is woe which was flesh, and hurt which was 

delight. 
And the fairest and kindest love must sort with a lurking 

hate. 
And the heart of pity be stone within her, and wrong be 

but right. 
And our very prayers are for power to punish and desolate; 
Yea, stript to the spirit we stand, naked and very sure 
Of naught but the spirit, which, if it triumph not, yet shall 

endure. 



II 



Valour 



Mounting his stairs oi azure and of gold. 

The English lark sings in the August weather 

For joy which knoweth neither tie nor tether 

And is not troubled if the world grows old; 

\\ hile you, who were as blithesome and as bold. 

And held your life lightly as any feather. 

Sleep the high sleep that dead men sleep together. 

Careless of what is done and what is told. 



I know that all our England shone before you 

When you went down. It made a radiance 

Even of the front o't Death. Oh, woman's son. 

You died for England . . . valiant as she that bore you, 

And sent you forth with a still countenance, 

And broke her heart for England and lives on! 



Post Prcelium 
{Jutland] 

I 

Lovely, and mi^htily-thewed 

Mother of this ^reat brood, 

Lo, the beatitude 

Falls on thee like a flood, 

And folds thee where thou'rt stood 

Fronting the destinies 

With comfortable eyes. 



II 



Now knowest thou the rose 
Which to the sweet air blows 
In thy fair garden-close, 
And thine own lark that throws 
Down music as he goes 

Vaunting to heaven of thee, 
Are not for the enemy. 



13 



Ill 

Now knowest thou the maid 
Of her young joy unstayed, 
And matrons who have said 
Most secret prayers, afraid 
To tell themselves they prayed— 

In thy green land shall dwell 

Safe and inviolable. 

IV 

Woodland and russet farm, 
And hamlet, and the warm 
And goodly towns where swarm 
Thy populations. Harm 
Taketh not in her palm; 

And never will they know 

The tread of any foe. 



For round thee is the sheer 
Might of the mariner 
Whom thou didst suckle and rear 
And give for the ships. No peer 
Hath he to drive and steer 

And fight till the last bells 

The steely citadels. 



H 



VI 

Now knowest thou the deeps 
Of a verity thine; nor sleeps 
Nor fails the ward. Who leaps 
For what thy Amireld keeps, 
Soweth a wind, and reaps 

The whirlwind from thy guns, 
The lightning from thy sons. 

VII 

Blessed art thou that sent 
These to be strawne and spent; 
And blessed they that went, 
Singing with heart's content, 
Unto the sacrament; 

And blessed they that mourn 
Whoso shall not return. 



15 



Marching On 



I heard the young lads singing 
In the still morning air, 

Gaily the n tes came ringing 
Across the lilac'd square; 

They sang like happy children 
Who know not doubt or care, 

"As WE GO MARCHING ON." 



And each one sloped a rifle 
And each one bore a pack; 

They had no grief to stifle, 
No tears to wxep, alack; 

They were too blithe to question 
Which of them should come back, 
As they went marching on. 



i6 



IT 



Oh, thou whose eyes are sorrow. 
And whose soul is sorrowing, 

Who knowest that each to-morrow 
A deeper woe may hring, 

And knowest that all the comfort 
Is the very littlest thing 

While they go marching on! 



These sons of thine seek glory. 

As the bridegroom seeks the bride, 

And who shall tell the story 

Of their triumph and their pride? 

Like lovers, for the love of thee 

They have lain them down and died; 
And they go marching on. 



Ill 

They march by field and city, 
By every road and way, 

A march which angels pity 
And none may stop or stay 

Till the last head is rested 
On the last crimson clay; 

So they go marching on! 



17 



They march in the broad sunlight 

And by the lovers' moon; 
Into the flame and gun-light 

From morns and eves of June, 
And Death for their entranced feet 

Pipes an obsequious tune, 

And keeps them marching on. 



IV 

And mid the battle thunder. 
And in the fields of blood, 

They see the untarnished wonder. 
The healing, and the good 

Which passeth understanding 
And can not be understood; 

And they go marching on. 



They see the rose's brightness 
Made perfect and complete. 

Lilies and snows of whiteness. 
And wings of gold that beat 

For ever and for ever 
Before the Paraclete; 

And they go marching on. 



i8 



Sergeant Death 



Oh, Sergeant Death, 
I've served with you, 
And chanced my breath 
A time or two! 



Fve seen brave men 
Turn green as sin, 
When you have coughed, 
'Tallin, fall in!" 



I've heard brave men 
With cold fear shout. 
When you have piped, 
"Fallout, fall out 1" 



Where'er a lad 
Would do his part, 
'Tis you that probes 
His inmost heart. 

19 



Though all be stirred 
By drums a-roll, 
'Tis you that finds 
The soldier soul, 



And takes him through 
The conqueror's drill, 
And helps him home. 
Or leaves him still. 



'Tis you that puts 
In one parade 
Them that were anxious 
And afraid, 



And them that were 
Fed-up and sick, 
And them that begged 
You to be quick, 



And them that gave 
You laugh for laugh, 
And bitterer chatF 
For bitter chaff. . 



20 



Oh, you are old, 
And fierce and wise, 
But there is goodness 
In your eyes. 



And still your health 
Goes round the tents — 
"The Father of 
The Regiments!*' 



21 



Dawn 



This morning at dazvn I attacked the enemy's 
second system of defence '^ — Sir Douglas Haig 



These are the fights of Love and Joy and Men 
With Fate and Death and the ilHcit Beast, 
For guerdons, of which Glory is the least 
And Honour not the highest. The old reign 
Of Night shall topple, the old Wrongs be slain: 
Fitting it is that you go to the Feast 
While ange suns kindle the young-eyed east 
And bring the breath of Eden back again. 



Oh soldiers' hour! . . . For now the English rose 
Flames and is washed with the authentic dew 
And through the mist her ancient crimson shows: 
I see your shadows on the waking lawn 
Like shadows of kings, and all the souls of you 
Blazoned and bright and panoplied in the dawn. 



22 



Kitch 



ener 



If Death had questioned thee, 
"Soldier, where wouldst thou take 
The immitigable blow?" 
Thou hadst answered, "Let it be 
Where the battalions shake 
And break the entrenched foe." 



Yet wert thou nobly starred 
And destined. Thou dost die 
On the grim English sea; 
Thou goest to the old tarred 
Great Captains, and shalt lie 
Pillowed with them eternally. 



And they shall stir from their rest 
Each in his lordly shroud. 
And say, " 'Fore God, we have room, 
So are the deeps made proud, 
Behold the glory on his breast. 
Kitchener of Khartoum!" 



23 



For Righteousness' Sake 



Man that is born of a woman — 

The creature of doom, 
Who lives that the Shadow may summon 

Men forth to the tomb; 



Who knoweth not wages or earning, 

Who sows not to reap, 
Whose labour and passion and yearning 

Must finish with sleep; 



Who catches in vain at the glory; 

Whose brightness is rust; 
Whose days are a breath and a story; 

Whose house is the dust; 



Who lies, if he vaunt him of merit, 
Whose tree bears no fruit. 

Who quenches the spark of the spirit 
With lusts of the brute; 



24 



Yet — standeth erect to the fighting 

And whirlwind and flame, 
And squanders himself for the smiting 

Of Terror and Shame; 



Who gathereth his weakness and brings it 

Where furies move; 
And loves the world so that he flings it 

Away out of love; 



Even though he were fashioned to perish 

By ordinance grim, 
The Sons of the Morning would cherish 

Memories of him: 



Who owing a debt went and paid it, 

And kept with his blood 
The Earth for the Wisdom who made it 

And saw it was good. 



25 



Lovers 



He goeth and he returns not. He is dead 

Their house of joy no further brightness shows, 
Their loveliness is come unto its close, 

Their last touch given, and their last kindness said; 

For him no more the vision of her bent head, 
For her no more the lily or the rose, 
Nor any gladness in this place of woes; 

The book is shut, the bitter lesson read. 



Yet who shall beat them down ? Though the Abhorred 
Taketh the groom, and to the bride hath sent 
The dagger of anguish with the ice-cold hilt. 
Both of them triumph in a strange content — 
And out of souls like these will heavens be built 
And holy cities peopled for the Lord. 



26 



John Travers Cornwell 



''Boy {first class) John Travers CornwelU of Chester, was 
mortally wounded early in the action. He nevertheless 
remained standing alone at a most exposed -post quietly 
awaiting orders till the end of the action, with the guns crew 
dead and wounded all round him."— Admiral Beatty 



Mortally hurt, alone he stood, 
England, in thy great fortitude. 



While his spent shipmates round him lay 
He held on in thine ancient way — 



A stripling with the veteran eye 
For the hard front of destiny. 



Effacing Time shall not destroy 
The memory of this, thy boy. 

27 



On his young head the glory falls, 
As on the lordliest admirals; 



Fate sets his name in honour grim 
And even Death is proud of him. 



a8 



In the Train 



There's a soldier 
By gad! Yes!— 

See her gi* me 
That there kiss ?- 



All the people 
Crowdin' by: 

An' her a maid 
As shy as shy! — 



Kiss'd me fair 

An' plain an' free 
Before the blessed 

Company — 



Whisper'd when 
I bent my head- 

Mustn't tell you 
What she said! 

29 



Little 'un, 

But very smart, 
Stands no higher 

Than my heart! 

An' that straight 
An' unafraid, — 

Like a corporal 
On parade! 

Smiles, an* loves you 
With her eyes: 

Steadies you. 

And keeps you wise; 

Learns you all 

There is to know: 
Makes you feel 

It's good to go! 

Women's funny — 

So they are! 
But who taught 'em 

About war ? 

Where'd they learn 
Their bit of drill? 

Who is it took 'em 
Through the mill ? 

30 



And gave 'em grit 
Enough for ten, 

An' sense to share it 
With the men ? 

An' made 'em so 
They'd rather die 

Than let a soldier 
See 'em cry? 

An' gives *em strength 
And nerve and grace 

To look the postman 
In the face? 



Oh, don't forget it, 

Mother's son — 
They're soldiers, soldiers 

Everyone! 

Soldiers loving 
Them that's gone. 

Soldiers, soldiers 
"Holding on"— 

Proudest Regiment 

Ever known, — 
Let us call 'em 

"The Lord's Own." 

31 



Steel-True and Blade-Straight 



I 



Steel-true and blade-straight — 
There*s your man! And soon or late 

He is England — all of her; 

All the Blood that makes her fair. 
All the Soul that makes her great, 
Steel-true and blade-straight. 



II 



Steel-true and blade-straight — 
Neither puffed out, nor elate, 
Neither glad, nor sad, nor sorr}% 
Seeking neither grace nor glory, 
Steadfast at the battered gate — 
Steel-true and blade-straight. 



32 



Ill 

Steel-true and blade-straight — 

Let the pillars of the State 

Wrangle to their hearts* content — 
His to fend and thrust and feint, 

His to watch and ward and wait, 

Steel-true and blade-straight. 



IV 

Steel-true and blade-straight — 
While we bawl and perorate, 
Big with **ifs" about our war — 
He, the undoubting conqueror. 
Knocks the nonsense out of Fate- 
Steel-true and blade-straight. 



33 



Sursum 



I saw his dread plume gleaming, 
As he rode down the line, 

And cried like one a-dreaming 
"That man, and that, is mine!" 



They did not fail or falter 
Because his front so shone; 

His horse's golden halter 
With star-dust thick was sown. 



They followed him like seigneurs. 
Proud both of mien and mind- 
Colonels and old campaigners 
And bits of lads new-joined. 



A glittering way he showed them 
Beyond the dim outpost, 

And in his tents bestowed them — 
White as the Holy Ghost. 



34 



And, by the clear watch-fires, 
They talk with conquerors, 

And have their hearts* desires, 
And praise the honest wars. 



And each of them in raiment 
Of honour goeth drest, 

And hath his fee and payment, 
And glory on his breast. 



O woman, that sit'st weeping — 
Close, like the stricken dove,- 

He is in goodly keeping, 
The soldier thou didst love! 



35 



The Full Share 



"/ take my full share of responsibility for the initiation 
that operation — my full share. . . . I do not propose 
adopt the attitude of a white-sheeted penitent, with a cowp 
of cayidlesy one i?i each hand, doing penance and asking f 
absolution'' — Cabinet Minister 



Do not expect from me 

(Whom you have set 

In this authority) 

Defence, apology, 

Excuse or plea, 

Or even a regret: 

No sheeted penitent 

Am I, 

To stand 

Candle in hand 

And cry 

That I may be forgiven, 

Absolved or shriven, 

For what is spilt and spent. 

36 



All that has happened so 

Is so. 

I lay it bare; 

Admission I make: 

The wisest of us err, 

The best plans go awry; 

Perhaps we blundered sore; 

But I would have you know 

No one is more 

Responsible than I, 

And of the accountability I take 

My share — and my full share! 



II 



In far Gallipoli 

Where Achi frowns to the sea, 

And wild war-fires are set; 

Stark to the Eastern moon, 

There lies, 

Huddled in the last agonies, 

Beside his shattered gun, 

A new-slain English boy: 

And his dead eyes 

Hint not apologies, 

Excuses or regret, 

Neither dismay nor joy; 

No candles at his head 

Nor sheet nor shroud has he, 

37 



And by his blood-soaked bed 
No shriving words are said. 

It is a woman's son — 

The child she bare 

In England free and fair: 

Following the English drum 

Hitherward is he come, 

So to annul 

And break 

Himself for England's sake — 

He, too, hath taken his share. 

And taken it in full. 



Ill 

Lord of the Mysteries, 

Who on the shining air 

Launchest despair, 

And black, by rose and vine, 

Spillest the battle-line; 

This is the Bread, and this 

The perfumed Wine: 

No period dost Thou set 

Unto our dole and fret. 

Which, being of Thee, are Thine; 

Yet, if we yield our breath 

To death, 



38 



Or keep in strife 

This fripperied, fardel life, 

Help each of us to bear 

His share — and his full share! 



39 



Killed 



Lieutenant Keen was "great," and yet 
He would look over the parapet; 
And something smacked him in the head, 
And he lay down as dead as dead. 

He sluttered down, all proud and grim. 
And we set to and buried him; 
All night he lay and took his rest 
With lumps of Flanders on his breast. 

All day he lay in Flanders ground 
And rested, rested, good and sound; 
But when the dog-star glittered clear 
He calls, *'By Jove, it's dark down here!'* 

"Sergeant, ain't I for rounds?" sings he, 
"And where's the bally Company?" 
And he was answered, with respect, 
"Here, sir — all present and correct!" 

And — sure as I'm a man — at night 
He comes along the trench, as white 



40 



And cheerful as the blessed saints, 
To see if there was "no complaints.'* 

They cannot quieten that boy's ghost, 
He'll have no truck with no ''Last Post," 
They mark him "Killed," but you may swear 
He's with us, be it foul or fair. 

He goes before us like young fire, 
A soldier of his soul's desire; 
Through the hell-reek that smothers us. 
He fathers us and mothers us. 

When we have pushed the German swine 
Across the pretty river Rhine, 
Maybe he'll bide where he was spent 
And lie down happy and content. 



41 



Dying for Your Country 



I 



When Britain first, at Heaven's command, 

Arose from out the azure main, 
We had no buttons and no band — 

We did our murder very plain; 
There were no heroes, no V.C/s, 

No glory for the honoured dead — 
We went and slew our enemies, 

Or they slew us, and nothing said. 



II 



Slaughter was slaughter, gore was gore. 

And kicks were kicks the same as now, 
And death was just as sharp and sure. 

And just as cooling to the brow. 
We did not fight for pelf or fame. 

Neither for honour did we strive, 
Nor for to make Old England's name. 

But just to keep ourselves alive. 



42 



Ill 



It's him or you, ourselves or them — 

An ugly wild-beast law — and yet 
It hits us with a gust like flame 

When we are minded to forget; 
For all our sweet tarantara, 

Our "love of right" and "hate of ill," 
Boil down to the old formula — 

We must be killed unless we kill. 



IV 



So, Johnny, keep your barrel bright, 

And go where you are told to go, 
And when you meet, by day or night. 

Our friend the enemy, lay him low; 
And you must neither boast nor quake. 

Though big guns roar and whizz-bangs whizz- 
Don't die for your dear country's sake, 

But let the other chap die for his. 



43 



A Chant of Affection 



And so you hate us! You 

Hate England — hate, hate, hate! 

A bestial brewage, racked 

Out of the pits and holes 

Of foulness and deceit, 

Riots in your unclean veins; 

You burn, you rage, you choke. 

You spit and splutter hate 

For England! ... To the Russ, 

Battering your Eastern doors, 

You have a mind to turn 

The blubbered other cheek; 

The Gaul — your sweet old friend 

And crony of your love — 

For him, dear soul, white flags. 

Garlands and pretty lures. 

Doves, promises, desire 

To load him with the half 

Of that you filched away: 

For Belgia, "bleeding hearts," 

Laments, regrets, "mild rule," 

Cheap headstones for her sons, 



44 



And for her daughters You — 
That they may suage your lusts 
And, by the fireless hearths 
You have made desolate, 
Be snugly brought to bed 
Of further Attilas 
And blonde Barabbases — 
Lieges and *'gun fodder" 
For the top-heavy Dolt 
Whom ye call Kaiser and Lord. 
Yea, holy are your eyes 
And filled with kindly beams 
For these and all the world : 
On Turk and Pole and Boer, 
Bulgar, American, 
You smile your panderous smile- 
But for the EngUsh — Hate! 



And you will rend our Throat, 

And you will bite our Heel, 

And you will stamp us down: 

You put an oath on bronze 

(No paper this time — bronze! 

Which is not easily blown 

On winds of treachery!) 

You have made an oath of bronze, 

An oath no wind may shake. 

An oath for your sons and their sons 

One foe and one alone — 



45 



ENGLAND ! For England hate! 
And hate and hate and hate! 

How shall we hate you back 
We who are England; we 
Whose bugles round the world 
Blow to the punctual daw^ns 
And fail not; whose great ships 
Traverse the seventy seas 
And always are at home; 
Who are too big for hate, 
Too careless and too fine, 
Too tempered and too proud — 
How shall we hate you back? 
For when you see us whole 
Our strength is an honest strength 
And based on what we love; 
And these be two things we love: 
Honour, and our fair land — 
Honour which is the crown 
And jewel and lamp and light 
Of them that are not clods; 
And our fair English land 
Peopled with forthright men 
Who make no talk of God, 
But fear Him in their hearts. 
And fear nor hate, nor death 
Nor the King's enemies; — 
A land of blunt, brave men. 
And blessed with memories 



46 



Of old and high renown; 
Old Captains who beat forth 
In lofty ships of war, 
Tawny and tarred and proud, 
Old Admirals, who sleep 
Safe In the ancient deeps. 
And dream for England still: 
Oh, you shall stamp us down 
When all the seas are red 
With the good English blood. 
And all the beaches white 
With decent English bones, 
And when our pleasant fields 
Are hillocked with carrion flesh 
That cries and cries to heaven 
Of coward Englishmen, 
And the white Yorkshire rose 
Blushes for shame of us, 
And her red sister-rose 
Blanches for shame of us, 
Then shall you stamp us down, 
Then shall you suck the blood 
Out of the English throats, 
And tack this Isle of ours 
On to your German wastes! 
O haters, fools and blind 
Go home and make dolls* eyes, 
And silly little clocks. 
And plaisters for our gout, 
Wimples and crisping-plns! 

47 



For now the outraged stars 

Have seen enough of you, 

The silver moons are sick 

That ye still blot the earth; 

From icy, hidden peaks 

And far-ofF fastnesses, 

From chambers of the South 

And in the unconquerable heart 

Of England, ware and wake. 

The tempest gathers up 

That shall be flails for you. 

And break you in your place 

And scatter you like straw; 

Instead of ** Hate, hate, hate," 

You shall cry "Doom, doom, doom,'* 

And you shall wail and mourn. 

With none to comfort you 

But sprites o{ murdered babes, 

And ghosts of women raped, 

And wraitlis of great slain men. 



48 



The Riddle 



Through a glass darkly 1 can see 
Slaves, in whose blood ran liberty; 

Creatures of anguish, fear and wrong, 
Abject of eye, furtive of tongue; 

Whose joy hath taken wings and flown, 
Whose strength no longer is their own; 

Whose high tower toppled to the dust, 
Whose silk and steel are moth and rust; 

Whose name is water and shall be 
A byword and a mockery; 

Who eat the portion of the thrall, 
Whose drink is vinegar and gall; 

Whose flesh doth suflFer whip and rope, 
Whose children's children may not hope; 

Upon whose fetters chuckling Fate 
Hath set her scornful mark ''Too late." 



49 



And on whose brows that fronted God 
The leering Beast writes "Ichabod." 

Read you the riddle: who are these 
So naked to their enemies — 

And so possessed of their old phlegm 
That one shall safely spit on them? 

I will not tell you who they are; 
It is enough — They lost the war. 



50 



Ubi Bene 



f\Iong the English lanes a budding green, 

Upon the English orchards pink and white, 

And over them the rapture and delight 
3f April sunshine! Fair and fresh and clean, 
^ashen as if in wells of hyaline 

And very wondrous to the pilgrim sight; 

A glad, new land of all things soft and bright — 
3h, surely here an angel must have been 

\nd left his blessing! . . . Dead, young son of ours, 
Who didst so proudly taste the loving-cup. 
Whose blood but now shone like a living rose 
Dropped by the Lord upon the Flanders snows, 
^Vhat country shall they give you to be yours 
For this, the England you have given up? 



SI 



Cor Cordium 



He is gone hence. Weep no weak tears for him : 
You gave us freely what you valued most; 
It is not loss, for gifts are never lost 

Unto the giver. Lo, the star-kept, dim 

Limits where battle fades away, and grim 

Death halts and hath no power! On that coasi 
His feet are set among the shining host 

Who range with cherubim and seraphim. 



A thousand suns are unregarded dust, 

A million dawns break and are counted not, 

And Beauty rlseth up, and she departs 
Eternally — eternally forgot; 
But your fair stripling, dead beside his trust, 
Is safely folded in the Heart of Hearts. 



S* 



A Rhyme of Gaffer D- 



I know the old chap very well, 

He called on us when I was young — 

They sang a hymn and tolled a bell, 

"Friend after friend departs," they sung. 



He took my father somewhat quick. 
He took my brother from his play, 

He took my dog (a dirty trick — 
Though he's the GafFer, anyway). 



After — I didn't mind of 'im 
A-cuttin' up his grisly capers, 

For years and years, although Fd seem 
To read about 'im in the papers. 



When war broke out, I saw the bills. 

What says, "Your King and Country Needs You,' 
My 'eart with rule Britannia fills 

An' whispers, "Go where glory leads you." 



S3 



But though I loved the 'Uns a treat, 
An* would have 'listed brisk an' 'earty, 

I always seemed to get cold feet 
A-thinkin' of that same Old Party. 

Till — well, at last, it had to be, 

My girl, she says, "You'll make me proud!" 
"Wot about 'im ?" says I. Says she, 

"Sign up, my lad, an' 'im be blowed!" 

An' so I signed and so I joined, 

An' learnt my facin's an' my drillin', 

An' how to wash my ears behind. 
An' always be alert an' willin'. 

An' how to do things at the word, 

An' stamp when 'alted or "attention"-ed. 

An' all the time I never heard 

The Old Chap's name so much as mentioned. 

Our little lot, they say, is "it," 
And not a bunch to stick at trifles. 

In fact for 'ficiency an' grit 

We're next door to the Artists' Rifles. 

An* yet, my friends, twixt you an' me. 
Despite the bluff they feed the boys on, 

The Reg'ment don't like Gaffer D 

An*, reely, 'ates 'im worse than poison. 

54 



He is the Major's constant dread, 
The fly in the Lieutenant's ointment, 

Even the Colonel, so 'tis said, 
Will meet him only by appointment. 

Oh, he's a wash-out, that Old Gent! 

If 'tweren't for him, so 'elp me never. 
We'd all of us be well content. 

To fight for 'arth and 'ome for ever! 

You should ha' seen 'im t'other day, 
A-beckonin' us across the trenches — 

The very corporils knelt to pray. 

An' look at pictures of their wenches! 

We did our bit — oh yes, we did. 
An' he was in his element — 

He took a toll which can't be hid 
Until the big new draft is sent. 

But still I thank my stars, I does, 
('Appy am I it should be so) 

That though he wasn't kind to us 

He weren't no kinder to the foe. . . 

You won't get rid of that Old Card, 
Leastways till you've got rid of sin, — 

So here's his 'ealth, say I — the Hard 
Old Chap that spoils the soldierin'; 



55 



The Chap that mocks at mother's prayers, 
And loves to widow the young bride; 

Yet hurteth only whom he spares, 
And makes the rest most satisfied. 



S6 



The Ass 



The enemy without — and he within! 

You meet him on the stairs of your high tower 
All simpers. At his nose he hath a flower, 

Upon his tongue cheap honey; and his chin 

Waggeth for ever. If we lose or win — 

Please don't talk war! The witty luncheon hour, 
The joyous week-end ! Good souls, who could sour 

So blithe a spirit, or prick so sleek a skin ? 



Cheerfullest wight! It is his constant whim 
To beam on Fate. All that he asks is love, 

A salad, a glass of wine, music that charms, 
A book, a friend, and "the blue sky above"- 

And underneath, the everlasting arms 

Of them that toil and groan and bleed for him. 



57 



The Diners 



" They died contenty* he said. 
And bent a well-groomed head 
Sweetly above the soup: 

*' Ah, splendid lads /" he sighed. 

''And . . . (Waiter!) . . . think /—they d\ 

Content / . . . (the cantaloupe 

Wasn't quite ripe enough). 

Real top-hole lads and tough ! — 

A lesson for those swine ! — 

(Yes, yes — uncork the wine!) 

" Top-hole, I tell you ! — (pish, 
Fm not so keen on fish! — 
Don't matter — eat it, dear) — 
Beat us ? Good Lord ! No fear ! — 
With lads like that about ! 
(Well well — they call it trout!) 
Where can you match 'em ? (Oh — 
Pates of riz de veau I) 

"All heroes ! — (Gad — that's Jones — 
Wolfing his damned grilled bones — 

S8 



Pardon — but really — well — 

Grilled bones for dinner! . . . 'Pell-Mell'? 

No, darling, let us go 

And see the other show) — 

Our chaps are simply *it* I — 
(Not just the weeniest bit? 
The waiting here's absurd : 
When will they bring the bird ?) 

" They died content ! . . (Don't look — 

There's Mumble and the duke 

And Mrs. M. — Of course 

She does laugh like a horse!) — 

They died like gentle7nen ! 

(Chicken ? No — ancient hen ! — 

But still the salad's good) — 

My God — the British blood ! 

** You very nearly kissed 
That fearful Casualty List ? — 
Ah, precious, yoiive a heart ! — 
(What excellent strawberry tart!) — 
Yes, Haigs O.K., you bet 
He'll smother 'em — and yet 
There must be sacrifice ! — 
(I shouldn't risk the ice!) 

" (Coffee for two — no cream !) 
It all seems like a dream: 
Still, we shall win right through. 
As we were bound to do. . , , 



59 



They died content ! — (Why, sure!- 
Did'Ums want its liqueur ? . . 
And, waiter, — that cigar! 
And, waiter — call the car! — 
And bring the blanky bill! — 
These 'neutrals' make me ill!)" 



do 



A Rhyme of Right or Wrong 



"Though the race be to the swift 
And the battle to the strong 
History must one day sift 

What is right from what is wrong. 



' History alone can show 

Warring nations their true fame, 
And on each of them bestow 

Proper shares of praise and blame. 

"We are right? Let's hope we are: 
But how dreadful it would be 
If we chanced to win the war 
And no praise from History! 

"Therefore clasp Herr Murderer's fist, 
Offer terms to Lustundloot, — 
Is he not a Socialist? 

And an expert with the flute? 



6i 



** Keeping on is wrong indeed — 
Germans feel and love and pray: 
If you prick them don't they bleed 
Like the Hebrew in the play?'* 

Thus the babblers more or less 

Platitudinously present 
To the public consciousness 

An uplifting argument. . . . 

History! you've always burned 
For sheer justice just too late; 

But so far as we're concerned 
Put this on your little slate: — 

Right or wrong we did not sheathe 
Britain's sword till the last Hun 

Carried back his loosened teeth 
To his own place in the sun. 

Right or wrong we did not rest 
Till we'd laid that sovereign herb 

Comfort, on the outraged breast 
Of the Belgian and the Serb. 

Right or wrong we watched with France 
From the Alps unto the sea, 

Through the night of black mischance 
Till the dawn of victory. 



62 



Right or wrong we smashed the yoke 
Greed had forged for the world's neck; 

Right or wrong we dealt the stroke 
Which brought Kaiserdom to wreck. 

Right or wrong we never hid 

Our behef that wars would cease; 

Right or wrong we made a bid 
For the thousand years of peace. 

Right or wrong for this we gave 

Our young sons to death and doom, — 

Every garden had its grave, 
Every field a hecatomb. 

Right or wrong the German mob 
Got their ultimate meal of grit; 

(Right or wrong we took the job, 
Right or wrong we finished it.) 

Right or wrong our faith was true 

Though the end seemed "not in sight'*; 

Right or wrong we muddled through 
And were thankful — wrong or right. 



63 



( July 1, 1916 



We were unprepared, 

We were most unwise; 

We have been like that 

For centuries — 

But we've taught ourselves a thing or tw< 

And we're muddling through. 

Twenty-three months! 

Twenty-three Men! 

Oh, the muddle 

And muddle again! — 

One can't deny it, because it's true — 

But we're muddling through. 



Shells and soldiers, 

Piles and files; — 

The roar goes up 

On seventy miles: 

We know now what we always knew- 

We shall muddle through! 



64 



Oh, Banner of ours 

That shines in the wars, 

Oh, excellent bars 

Red, white, and blue, 

With glory in every fold of you- 

We shall muddle through! 



65 



To the Kaiser 



With a Child's Drum 



He was three years old, a mirthful, tumbling wight, 
To see your cohorts pass, he stood at stare. 
Unwitting, but pleased; and out of his delight 
He laughed you forth a Five VAngleterre. 



Boiled the insulted blood in the high veins 

Of the most puissant and invincible 

(Whose fathers, spat upon, remarked "It rains!") 

Your soldier fired — rebellious innocence fell. 



Wherefore we send you. Conqueror, a child's drum, 
And you shall beat upon it as you go 
Bloodily stalking to your crazy doom — 
The plaything of your murdered baby foe. 



66 



Joffre 



There's a solid lump of War — 

Name o* Joffre, 
Lives on a swift motor-car. 

General Joffre; 
Plays with Death at hide and seek- 
In and out the Battle's reek — 
Kisses heroes twice a week — 

Father Joffre! 



Up at dawn to see his friends — 

Healthy Joffre! 
Has no patience with week-ends, 

Have yer, Joffre? 
''Get the work done — then let's dine!" 
Likes his omelette and his wine, 
Goes to bed at half-past nine — 

Vigorous Joffre! 



Nibble, nibble all the day"— 

(Patient Joffre!) 



67 



Makes the Kaiser kneel and pray, 
Don't it, JofFrt? 
"Nibble, nibble all the night*'— 
Music for the pale moonlight, 
Worries 'em and bleeds 'em white; 
Saigner JofFre! 

Oh, he's keen on German dead. 

Careful JofFre, 
"Every one of 'em," he's said 

(Monsieur JofFre), 
"Helps to fatten the warm, brown 
Soil that still is France's own — 
Dig 'em in and stamp 'em down!" 
Farmer JofFre! 

He don't hurry up the Fates, 

Doesn't JofFre, 

He just waits and waits and waits — 
Watchful JofFre! 

Then he pounces — un, deux — bifF! 

Takes 'em right in the midrifF, 

"Kamerad — par grace!" they snifF. 

" 1" says JofFre! 

All the time he's fighting Bosche, 
Steadfast JofFre! 

In his four-three mackintosh, 

Thrifty JofFre! 



68 



Want to see the German thief 
Use a pocket-handkerchief? 
Holler at him, brisk and brief, 

"JofFre,JofFre,Joffre!" 

T'other day, he thought he'd go 

(Thinks, does JofFre!) 
To the seaside for a blow, 

Cheerful Joffre! 
Bulgars at the Serbian throat, 
Greece behaving like the goat — 
"Put me on the Channel boat," 

Murmurs JofFre! 

And he wanders down Whitehall, 
Simple JofFre! 

For to pay his morning call. 

Civil JofFre! 

Cabinet Ministers in pairs, 

Hearing footsteps on the stairs. 

Jumped up from their easy chairs — 

"Lord, it's JofFre!" 

What he told 'em — well, you know 
(Whisper JofFre!) 

Must be printed so — and — so, 

(Censor — JofFre !) 

But on this and this and that. 

You may bet your Sunday hat, 

They had quite a useful chat, 

Friendly JofFre! 



69 



So here's to Joffre Bahadur, 

Soldier JofFre! 

May he make a hash of "Fader," 

Frenchman JofFre! 

Mr. Kipling, I am sure, 

Will be pleased for us to score, 

On the old slate, two names more — 

"France" and *7ofFre"! 



70 



Excuses 



I 



I have a widow'd mother, to whom I cleave 
With a devouring passion. My sole care 
And joy she is. ''What money I can spare* 

Is hers — when she can get it. If I leave 

Upon your urgent errand she will grieve 

(Poor soul), and find no comfort anywhere- 
Beauty draws some men by a single hair; 

But me— Fm all for mother, please believe. 



A boy's best friend's his mother without a doubt 
And a most excellent mother have I got: 

Tis true, the other day, she said, "You go — 
ril struggle through!" I murmured, "Certainly not!"— 
Sharp like, and firm. . . . Dear heart, she'll 
never know 
How much I've loved her— since the war broke out! 



71 



II 



In me behold the trusty stay and prop 

Of Mr. Cheesemonger. He calls me Sam; 

I mix his eggs and cut his ''splendid" ham, 
And clean his windows and sweep up his shop. 
And drive his pony till it's fit to drop, 

And help his customers into the tram — 

Fm indispensable, I am, I am, 
And if I went the business would go flop. 



Kind Mr. C. remarks "A pretty thing 
To want my right-hand man — and like their che 

Now, who comes first, your Country and your Kir 

Or me.?" Of course, I answered, *'You do, sir!" 
He raised my screw to eighteen bob a week 

And claims exemption for a "manager." 



Ill 



And I — ah, mine's a bitter case indeed; 

You call me slacker, coward, what you will — 

I have a patent duty to fulfil 
By my white soul whose promptings I must heed: 
It's not my fault if heroes choose to bleed. 

Blood I abhor, and no man's blood I'll spill, 

My conscience simpl}^ will not let me kill — 
The Sixth Commandment's plain for all to read. 



72 



Clearly, who fights is either wicked or mad. 
And rage and malice are the spawn of hell; 

No quarrel have I with Germans or with Turks 
Vm single — yes! Profession? I used to sell 
Cats' meat before the war; but times being bad 
I've taken a job at a munition works. 



73 



It 



*' England has an Achilles' heel.'' — HiNDENBURG 



Out of iron and blood 

And flame of the nether pit, 
And fifty sorts of mud, 

They fashioned the great god It. 

And as he frowned on high 

They bade him speak them luck, 

And shouted solidly — 

"Hoch, hoch! Hoch, hozh— Von Kluck r 

But dumb and sour and grim, 

He eyed them hant en has: 
They cried, "Let*s flatter him — 

Moltke ! hurrah, hurrah!'* 

Yet, heavy and dull as lead, 

No sign might he evince, 
"We'll tickle him up!" they said — 

"Heil, heil! Heil, ht\\—Kronprinz r 



74 



Deafer than any stone, 

Dumber than any stock, 
Frowned he. They yelled, "Our own 

Von FalkenhayUy hoch, hoch!" 

Yea, he sat there like sin 
Knowing nor sense nor wit, 

Till the dry throat of Berlin 
Gasped "HiNDENBURG IS It'/' 

Then did It speak. Like steel 
His words — "Beware the Foe 

For yo^Lr Achilles' heel 
Is her Achilles* toe!" 



75 



1912 



[First published in 1910] 

O Fair and Fair and Fierce, 
Tigress mother of ours, 
Beautiful-browed, deep-thewed 
Passionate mother of ours. 
Hearken ! The drums of doom 
Are beaten at the gate. 
And it is meet that THOU, 
Whose breasts are ice and steel, 
Whose heart is all a fire, 
Should show us frightened eyes. 
And lips becomingly blenched; 
So say the very wise. 

For when the thrones were made 
Thine, the throne of the thrones. 
Was set in the yeasty seas: 
Built and bastioned and braced, 
A tower of brass, a rock. 
An adamant pyramid, 
A strength unshakable; 



76 



And to thy hands were given 

Power and dominion 

Wherever water is salt, 

Wherever a shipboy sings, 

Wherever ships may ride; 

So that the seas of the world, 

Though they be seventy times seven. 

Are EngHsh seas, and thine; 

Whether it be the harsh 

And bitter seas of the north. 

Flurried by little winds, 

And pushed by piping gales 

Against the winking stars; 

Or the still blue middle seas; 

Or where the daffodil moon 

Slips down an amethyst sky 

To walk with silver feet 

On the Southern, soft lagoons. 

It is the English sea. . . . 

Who is this that waits 
By the weary Baltic shore. 
By the kneeling Baltic shore. 
With shrouded arm and hand, 
And a hand whereon there gleams 
A glove of impudent mail? 
Behind him stretch afar 
The pleasant, placid spas. 
Fattened with English aches; 
And the four-three factories. 



n 



And the reek of the dumper*s fires, 

And the pretty river Rhine 

(Which owes so much to Cooks), 

And rows, and rows, and rows 

Of flat-head soldier men. 

And the works of Schichau and Krupp, 

And for a sign in the blue, 

The tender himmelblau. 

The good, grey Count's balloons! 

Do you know this singular Lord, 

This humorous, hearty Prince, 

Whose cry is ** Peace, Peace, Peace," 

Abroad, and at home "War, War"; 

Who preaches through the day 

With olive twigs in his hair. 

And rises in the night 

To fan the secret forge; 

Who says, "Why should we fight? 

Prithee, why should we fight? 

What cause have we to fight ? 

Are we not friends, please God, 

And CUSTOMERS? . . . My glass 

Is raised to you and Peace 

Hurra, Hurra, Hurra!" 

Who says again, "My arms 
Must flourish on the seas, 
My arms and mine alone 
If you wish a place in the sun; 
As for the one in our path, 



78 



The one whom we all so love. 
By nineteen hundred and twelve 
I shall be ready for HER!! 
I have promised you your Day — 
Hurra, Hurra, Hurra!" 

It is nineteen hundred and ten 

And the Seas are English seas. 

They will be English seas 

Till they shall give up Drake 

And the thousand English hearts 

Which have made rich the depths: 

Until they shall be rolled 

Together like a scroll 

They shall be English seas. 

We sleep sound in our beds; 

We fear no fist of mail; 

We fear no withered arm; 

We are not afraid of Krupp 

Nor yet of Blohm and Voss. 

We wish you the Devil's joy 

Of all you have hidden and built; 

It is nineteen hundred and ten. 

We have simple words for you: 

In the English history books 

There is Eighteen Hundred and Five; 

We say to you when you pray. 

Thank Heaven if we do not write 

In the English history books 

With beautiful German blood 

Nineteen Hundred and Twelve. 

79 



Towards the Reckoning 



With tongue of oil and breath of myrrh 
They bid us turn the other cheek, 
And mark the blessing for the meek, 

The mourner and the peacemaker. 

They counsel, **Love your enemies; 

Do good to them who bear you hate; 

Agree thou quickly!" and they prate 
Of being, with the great wisdom, wise. 

"Of Eye for Eye and Tooth for Tooth 
None righteously exacts the debt; 
It is forbidden!'' they say — and yet 

They publish only half the truth. 

And by their speech the grinning Host 

Which hath Blasphemed takes lease to live. 
Harden our hearts, lest we forgive 

The Sin against the Holy Ghost! 



80 



Verdun 



"One shall be taken and the other left" — 
'Tis so with men, and even so with forts; 
One falls, another stands — the strong cohorts 
Beat vainly on it in rage of divers sorts — 

One shall be taken and the other left. 



One shall be taken and the other left — 

Behold the Bride that singeth through the gloom, 
And waiteth still with scorn the German groom, 
And fears not to be given away by Doom! — 

One shall be taken and the other left. 



One shall be taken and the other left — 
O eyes of Hell and fronts of bloody brass, 
France, by her Lilies, sweareth ye may not pass 
Unto her — though the bar were brittlest glass! — 

One shall be taken and the other left. 



8i 



Ireland 



I 



Our right — and your old wrongs. 

With men's and angels' tongues 
We did discourse. Alas — 
The tinkling cymbal and the sounding brass! 



We "ruled." You mourned and planned. 

We had gifts to understand 
All knowledge, all dreams, all star-sad mystery; 
Mountains we moved, while you made prophecy. 



We Doubted not. Your Eyes 

Were set on Paradise. 
Yet always, and most grievously, 
Both of us missed the "greatest" of "these three.' 



82 



II 



Your fair dead — our fair dead. 

Now, by each fallen head 
And each rebuking wraith, 
Swear we another Faith. 



Your night of tears — our night. 

But, by the unquenchable Light 
Toward which, blindly, we grope. 
Behold, another Hope! 



Our agony — and yours. 

Yea, by the Passionate Hours 
And the Exceeding Bitter Cry, 
Do we still lack . . . the Charity! 



83 



// 



[With apologies to Mr. Kipling] 



If you can lend your money to McKenna, 

And keep on lending all you have to spare; 
If you believe that "simple things like senna 

Are just as good as the best Brighton air"; 
If you can wrastle six days in the City, 

Running the show short-handed, or alone. 
And never have your moments of self-pity 

And never once say "Bless the telephone!" 



If you can face the rain on homeward buses, 

To save the cost of the old taxi ride. 
And wonder why young people make such fusses 

When "24V' are few and "full inside"; 
If you can don your country coat and breeches 

And dine in state off yesterday's cold joint, 
And read the missus Mr. Asquith's speeches 

And reason with her till she sees the point; 

84 



If you survey "the drama as it passes," 

Without a thought of this or that man's guile; 
If you deny that Ministers are asses, 

And pay the taxes with a friendly smile; 
If you can write before your son's name, "Private,' 

And never wish he wore a nice red tab; 
If on mature reflection, you arrive at 

The view that life in war-time isnt drab; 



If you can hear without a secret quailing 

That there were losses in last night's advance; 
If you can meet the postman without paling, 

And open telegrams with nonchalance; 
If you can read the letter from the Major, 

That puts a "finis" to your earthly joy, 
And stand up straight — and stiff-lipped — you may wager 

That, on the whole, you are a Man, old boy! 



8s 



Wounded 



Back again! Back again! Out o' blood and mud andi 

rain; 
Out o' gun-sound . . . God a'mighty! 
Out o' Blazes and home to " Blighty" ! — 
Broke right up and full o* pain, 
But back again — back again! 

Back again! Back again! By an extry special train 
With the Red Cross on the panels — 
Snuggled in me nice new flannels — 
Like the blinkin* King o' Spain — 
Back again! Back again! 

Back again! Back again! Clapham Junction plain a; 

plain! — 
Just as grimy, just as gloomy. 
Just as home-like, and as roomy — 
Dead on time — we can't complain — 
Back again! Back again! 

Back again! Back again! Waterloo and rows o* men 
Down the platform standing readv 

86 



"or to lift us quick and steady — 
Curses smiling — "How's the pain?" 
Back again ! Back again ! 

Back again ! Back again ! London Town and home again- 
ever knew how much they loved us, — 
n the ambulance they've shoved us — 
Nearly numbered with the slain 
But back again — back again! 



87 



Come Young Lads First 



Sergeant went a-walking 

Wi' ribbons in his cap, 
"Ho-ho," says he, "His Majesty 

Wants just another chap. 
An' as 'tis plain, for married men 

He no more cares a rap. 

Come young lads first!" 

Wherefore the bairn I suckled 

Goes now in khaki drest; 
So young is he, that he med be 

Still cosy from my breast; 
But he marches with his chin up 

An' his chest out, like the rest, 

Come young lads first! 

Old Squire says, "Oh yes, oh yes, 
'Twill do him worlds of good"; 

An' parson says that losing bairns 
If rightly understood 

Is blessed, an' 'tis sweet, he says, 

For th' King to shed your blood — 

Come young lads first! 



88 



"Abram," he says, "gave Isaac, 
As writ in Holy Word, 
An' Mary broke the precious box 

At the feet of our dear Lord; 
So you must give your boy," he says, 
"To carry England's sword. 

Come young lads first!" 

They speak you fair do gentlemen, 

But not more fair or free 
Than my young son, who's just the one 

His father used to be; 
And when I said he med get killed 

He angers up at me, 

"Come young lads first!" 

For he's no lad that hides his mind 

An' he's no lad that feigns; 
An' while he spoke my heart came back 

As easy of its pains 
As when his father courted me 

Along the scented lanes — 

Come young lads first! 

A woman has her love (it is 

Her glory and her crown) 
Which many waters cannot quench 

An' the great floods cannot drown; 
But men have that which passes love 

When they hear the bugles blown — 
Come young lads first! 

89 



An' so the bairn I suckled 

Goes now in khaki drest, 
So young is he, that he med be 

Still cosy from my breast; 
An' he marches with his chin up 

An' his chest out, like the rest — 
Come young lads first! 



90 



The Rhyme of the Beast 



Lo, the Beast that rioteth, 
Sick with hate and coveting — 

To the sons of men he saith, 
I will show you a new thing. 

This, the Earth, which was the Lord's, 

Prodigal of rose and vine, 
I will desolate with swords 

Till it own that it is mine. 



Every brow must bear my brand, 
Every wrist must wear my steel, 

Every throat be for my hand, 
Every neck be for my heel. 



I will thrust into your souls 

Unnamed terrors and despairs — 

Populate the air with ghouls 
And the sea with murderers. 



91 



While I prove that war is war, 

Saints shall mourn and angels weep, 

Star commiserate with star. 

Deep cry out to shuddering deep; 



Tigers marvel in their lust 
At the tale of blood and pain, 

Pity move the insensate dust 
And the very stones complain. 



I will twist the tongue of Truth 
Till her speech be nought but lies, 

I will kill the faith of Youth, 
And the hope in Age's eyes. 



Not the altar, nor the tomb, 
Nor the Sufferer on the Tree, 

Nor the babe within the womb 
Shall be sacred unto me. 



I will rend and rage and cog, 
Rob and ravish till I die; 

I will be the Supreme Hog 

And the world shall be my sty. 



92 



Gaudeamus 



''Our whole High Seas Fleet, without any aid from coast 
batteries, has delivered a victorious blow against the most 
powerful navy in the world. . . . The great sea fight so 
eagerly expected on both sides in the North Sea for twenty 
\ two months has been fought out.''— Tagebl ATT 



This is your "victory"! 

We who brook no defeat. 
On any sea, 

Being of the old sea-mind, 
Smile the sea-smile, and find 
Our very losses sweet. 



Of your "victorious blow" 

We give you the full joy: 
Be glad! We know 

Our strengths majestical- 
Our every admiral, 
Our every sailor boy. 



93 



Yet is it not "fought out": 

Lick you your wounds, good friends. 
And shout and shout — 
You will not shake 
Nelson, or Hood, or Drake, 
Or the appointed ends. 



94 



For Whom It May Concern 



Ye know that Freedom from her height 
Laughs on the world In Fate's despite: 

Here Is her comfort set: — 

England is England yet. 



Ye know that all the fronts of War 
Shine with the effulgent English star; 
Ye know whose is the blood 
That baffled and withstood 



Old tyrants; and full well ye know 
There never can be shock or blow 
To hurt more than a reed 
The panoply of your breed. 

How shall you in such armour girt 
Palter behind a woman's skirt, 
Or that man's pledge, or this 
Man's broken promises? 



95 



While the slipped flower of the race 
Comports him in the veteran's plaa 
His shroud (oh, Fearlessness!) 
Worn like a wedding dress. 



You will not grieve those emulous dead 

Boy heritors of goodlihead, 

Who haply loved their lives 
Much as you love your wives. 



96 



Slain 



Duke et decorum est pro patria mori 



You who are still and white 

And cold like stone; 
For whom the unfailing light 

Is spent and done; 

For whom no more the breath 
Of dawn, nor evenfall 

Nor Spring, nor love, nor death 
Matter at all; 

Who were so strong and young 

And brave and wise, 
And on the dark are flung 

With darkened eyes; 

Who roystered and caroused 

But yesterday. 
And now are dumbly housed 

In stranger clay; 

97 



Who valiantly led, 

Who followed valiantly, 
Who knew no touch of dread 

Of that which was to be; 



Children that were as nought 

Ere ye were tried, 
How have ye dared and fought, 

Triumphed and died! 



Yea, it is very sweet 

And decorous 
The omnipotent Shade to meet 

And flatter thus. 



THE END 



98 

U....L, .^ 




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